


Acupuncture

by danglingdingle



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:56:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danglingdingle/pseuds/danglingdingle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guys take off on a cruise, and Sherlock feels a bit funny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acupuncture

**Author's Note:**

> Very, very slight crossover with PotC.

Due to schedule of the British Museum, the ship sailed, as it had sailed for decades, manned only by the best, the deckhands rushing about to hold fast between the labyrinth of the lines everywhere on the black ship. From London to the Baltic Sea, the ship made stops in seaports en route, educating the inquiring minds crowding the ship, those who didn't have the unique opportunity to take part on the cruise.

There were two Londoners who had seized the day.

It had been John Watson's idea to take a cruise on the Black Pearl, the legendary pirate ship owned by the equally legendary Jack Sparrow with his partner, Will Turner.

At first, Sherlock had turned gradually paler and paler by the moment, and by the time he'd finished scrutinizing their cabin and reluctantly admitted it was perfectly suitable for two, Sherlock had been distinctly - more than usual - gray-ish. 

Then he'd heaved his stomach's contents. Repeatedly. 

John had promptly suggested fresh air, and the latest series of empty gags had left Sherlock shivering and leaning to the railing, despite his truly impressive efforts of keeping himself together.

The miserable whimper that escaped Sherlock's lips along with a violent shudder that threatened to deck him was all John could take.

"Right. That's it." John strolled over to Sherlock and placed a hand on his lower back. "You think that's enough, or would you like to continue undisturbed?"

Raising his head to glare at the bloody doctor was an apparent mistake and Sherlock decided not to move his head, ever again, no matter what taunts were aimed at him. 

The hand rubbing large circles on his back was nice though.

"I'll take that as a no. Good. Come over here."

Sherlock had trouble standing up as it was, and the determined hold of John's hands were too much of a struggle to resist. Clasping his hands over his face to stop the world from spinning was all Sherlock could do before he found himself being gently guided towards their cabin, the eyes of the other passengers following as the shorter man supported his companion with apparent ease.

The ship lulled on another wave and Sherlock's innards lurched. He couldn't bring himself to be ashamed of the long, shuddering, rather noisy sigh that his lungs produced. There was a low voice rasping from somewhere outside the haze.

"Take your shirt off and lay yourself down, I'll be right back." 

John left Sherlock with a grimace for the gurgling sound that came out of Sherlock in response. 

Quickly, John jogged to the galley which had been turned, temporarily, into a restaurant with a souvenir shop, and John bought the bottle of bourbon he was looking for. From the gift shop he grabbed a black flag with a skull and a red swallow, and went back to Sherlock.

Sherlock had not moved an inch. He was still sitting in an awkward looking cross-legged posture on his cot with his face in his palms, breathing in, holding it, and breathing out.

John knelt next to him, putting the bottle and the cloth on the table.

"Mr. Holmes. Take your shirt off and lay down. That's an order."

"What? Why?" 

It wasn't more than a mumble but the message was clear; Sherlock obviously didn't trust John being up to any good. 

"Because I can't very well be undressing you myself, can I? Well, I could, but for now, I'll ask one more time and then I'll leave you to your suffering, it's your choice. Take off your shirt and lie down."

John watched patiently as Sherlock unravelled himself and started to pull his shirt out of his trousers. 

The man's lips and fingernails were turning blue-ish now. Not good. Deciding to take matters into his own hands, now that Sherlock was obviously going to do as he was told, John took a hold of the hem of the shirt and pulled it over Sherlock's head.

"Good. Now, lie down, that's right, down…" John supported Sherlock's back until he was laying down, pressing his eyes tightly closed, reaching out his hand to rub his temples. The swaying was worse than it was sitting up, where it had been worse than standing up, and Sherlock only wanted to turn his head, just a bit, so he could accommodate the whirling motion, but there were hands on the sides of his face stopping him.

"John, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to make you feel better. I promise. Just shut up and relax, the best you can under the circumstances."

Sherlock felt how John's fingers curled over his head, buried into his hair, while John's thumb was pressing down on a spot on his forehead. The other hand was wrapped around the back of his head on the other side, holding Sherlock's head still firmly. 

John's thumb started rubbing in tiny motions, bringing a sense of heat behind Sherlock's eyes. 

The pressure he'd felt inside his head was focused under John thumb now, while the rest of his head felt like it would be flying away if the firm hands weren't holding it still.

Sherlock sighed out of the feeling. Then the thumb was gone. 

The hands didn't let go, and before Sherlock could say anything, a wave of nausea made him swallow hard.

Then he felt the thumb on his cheek, under his eye, pressing and rubbing again, bringing a peculiar warmth spreading from his abdomen towards his limbs before moving lower a fraction and repeating the motion. 

Every small movement made the churning in Sherlock's stomach lessen and the odd feeling of light-headedness turn into real, intelligent thoughts again. Sherlock had stopped shivering, and with John effectively blocking the sun shining through the window, Sherlock was feeling much better.  
By the time John's fingers were tucked under Sherlock's neck and his thumb worked near to the joint of 

Sherlock's jaw, Sherlock felt he could talk again without presenting visual aid.

"What are you doing?"

"Be quiet and hold still." The spot changed again. "Acupuncture. Supposed to make you stop feeding the fishes. This better work or you'll be completely useless for the rest of the way." Another movement of John's hand, and he was cupping Sherlock's face, his thumb right next to Sherlock's mouth.   
Sherlock opened his eyes, then opened them wider to see what the darkness of John's eyes and the strange impression on his face was about. He was staring at Sherlock's lips. Intently. Sherlock's intestines flipped.  
"I don't think it's working"

"I beg to differ, as you can't quite be mistaken as a Greek marble sculpture anymore. At least not judging by your skin tone." 

John looked over Sherlock's face and when his eyes met Sherlock's open and wide ones, his thumb halted its movement. The whole of John froze for a second before he lowered his gaze to his hand again and moved it casually, as if not at all disturbed, downwards again, fingers curving around Sherlock's neck and his thumb on Sherlock's throat, the pressure now being no more than gentle brushes.

"Well you are rather tensed, aren't you? Might as well be carved out of stone, what with all that stiffness, and the highly distinctive lack of looseness and all that."

John reached to his left side, grabbed the cloth and promptly disappeared into the head, and instantly returning with the folded, wet cloth, flapping it over Sherlock's eyes and forehead. 

Sherlock made a surprised sound and tried to get the cloth off, but John's hand was quicker than his, catching him be the forearm.

"Don't. You'll feel like there's a swarm of bees building a nest inside that skull of yours in a few minutes. The coolness should stop some of that happening. Leave it on."

Sherlock resigned to his faith with a sigh. He was actually feeling a whole lot better now, John's touch beside his mouth had stopped the rest of the commotion in Sherlock's stomach after the weird, final jig. 

He was feeling almost normal, really, although his head did feel a bit heavy and there was a throbbing in his temples.  
"Can I talk now?"

John's touch slid lower again, careful not to press too hard.  
"If you must."

"You said acupuncture."

"Yes."

"Shouldn't there be needles?"

"Yeah, but I figured using the sail-maker's needles and awls we have aboard could turn the scenery a bit too bloody for my liking, so we're sticking to acu _pressure_."

Sherlock could well imagine the smirk on John's face he was talking through.

"Very funny John."

John could imagine the bemused frown forming on Sherlock's forehead. His smirk turned to a full blown grin.

"It is funny, given that, had I a set of real acupuncture needles, I'd wager you'd not let me anywhere near you with them. Might as well have been waving a surgeon's knife at you, the result would be the same."   
John splayed his fingers across Sherlock's left clavicle while fixing his thumb closer to the right one while adding more pressure again.

 

"You make it sound like I'm scared of you" The tension was back in an instant. 

Pressing with his thumb a bit harder than was really necessary, John brought his hand to the next point.  
"…In the case you haven't noticed, I'm the one who has the upper hand here…" Next spot, harder push, tiny, jerking movements on Sherlock's pectoral muscle. "Now, if I were in your stead, darling Sherlock, I'd stow it and more importantly, wouldn't be taking everything so personally." 

Sherlock set his jaw to bite back the retort that wanted to clash with John's threatening tone. Taking a deep breath and concentrating on the pleasant tingling feeling that had begun in the back of his head, he forced his muscles to relax again. What else could he do?

John proceeded to the next pressure point in grave silence. 

The tingling in Sherlock's head spread across his forehead, making colours swirl behind his eyes. He realized he was breathing more shallow now, with John's palm placed over Sherlock's right nipple, his fingertips nestled between Sherlock's arm and side. Sherlock decided not to be bothered, dousing the restlessness that crept up his spine and tried to think what they were talking about before John's badly disguised banter.

"How do they feel?" Sherlock asked casually.

"What?" John snatched his hand away alarmed and had a sudden fit of hacking cough, right before the rest of the sentence came out in the same squeaky way. 

Sherlock listened, scrunching his forehead as the now-warm-cloth over his eyes was starting to itch, and judged by the sounds that John knocked the bourbon bottle over, opened it and took a large gulp. Sherlock distantly hoped John wouldn't get fever along with the cough, as it might complicate things.

John cleared his throat before talking.  
"How do what feel?" He didn't wait for an answer before bringing the bottle back to his lips again with an anticipating grimace.

"The needles. Acupuncture."

John's hand went back to were it was on Sherlock's chest and the bottle clanked as it hit the table a few seconds later. John swallowed audibly.  
"I wouldn't know. I've never let anyone poke me with those spears."

Sherlock chuckled and felt himself truly relax. It wasn't that bad out here at the sea.   
Now that the nausea had completely vanished, with John's thumb bringing such pleasurable jolts all through him, the ripple that the sea cradled the Black Pearl with, it was actually rather soothing.

Then John's thumb crazed over Sherlock's nipple for the first time. Still soothing. When the finger gently pressed against the area the second time, Sherlock swallowed hard. 

A small, choked sound came from John's direction, before he spoke again in a clearly irritated tone. "There. All done. It's better you lay down for a while, you might be feeling a little dizzy…I'll be over…there." 

The soft tingling padding that seemed to have enveloped Sherlock's brain agreed that he was in no hurry to get up, though a small part of him was sorry that the treatment was over. 

John quickly clambered to his feet and swiftly disappeared to upper deck without another word, leaving Sherlock to wipe his flustered face with the damp cloth, and wondering if it was something he said.


End file.
